Strange Sally Diamond

‘Not infamous?’ I said. I thought it was a good joke and so did she, because she laughed.

I told her about my attachment to routines.

‘You figure out your routine here and I’ll make sure I advise you of any changes. How about that?’ she said.

I walked out of that shop feeling lighter and taller, and happy. I felt like I’d made yet another friend.

32 Peter, 1982

The neighbour boy’s name was Rangi. I heard the old lady call him by that name. He never paid any attention to me until, one day, he kicked the ball awkwardly and it landed on my side of the fence. I ran from our porch to pick it up but, instead of throwing it back, I held on to it, standing by the fence, waiting for him to approach. After a minute of glaring at me, he did.

‘What’s wrong with you? Why didn’t you just kick the ball back?’

‘I’m Steve,’ I said.

‘Rangi.’

‘I know.’

‘Give me the ball, eh?’

I threw it towards him and, even though I fumbled the throw, he caught it deftly with one hand under his leg.

He didn’t thank me and began to walk away. I had to stop him.

‘Do you go to school? Is that where you go every morning?’

‘Yeah?’ He said it as if my question had been an accusation.

‘You’re lucky,’ I said. ‘I have a medical condition which means I can’t mix with other kids. If they touch me, I could die.’

‘Yeah? How did you get that? I’d love not to have to go to school.’

‘It’s bad,’ I said, self-pity taking over. ‘I have no friends.’

‘You got a television?’ he said.

‘Yes. You can come and watch it if you like, before my dad gets home?’

‘Where’s your accent from?’ he said.

I didn’t think I had an accent. ‘I’m Irish,’ I said before correcting myself in line with our story. ‘Well, I was born here, but I lived in Ireland since I was a baby. I came home two years ago.’

‘Yeah? It’s got a rugby team, right? That place where the war is on. You ever get bombed?’

He seemed disappointed when I admitted that I’d never seen a bomb or a gun and that the war was confined to one small part of Ireland that was under British rule. I could see he was losing interest so I changed tack.

‘What age are you?’ I asked.

‘Fifteen. You?’

‘Fourteen. Are you allowed to drive that truck?’

‘Sort of. Cops don’t ask. Why, is your dad the police?’

Rangi was suspicious.

‘No, he’s a dentist. Is that your mum that you live with?’

‘Nah, she’s me Auntie Georgia. Where’s your mum?’

‘She’s dead.’ There was a pause. I expected him to express his condolences but he said nothing. I said, ‘Do you want to come in and watch television? You can’t touch me.’

‘No, you freaking weirdo. Why would I want to touch you?’

This was going all wrong. He was walking away.

‘See you later, maybe?’ I called, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.

He didn’t look back.

Over dinner that evening, I nervously told Dad that I’d been talking to our neighbour.

‘The brown boy?’ he said, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

‘Yes, well, his aunt is white, so I think he’s mixed. He was unfriendly.’

‘You shouldn’t mix with them. I almost didn’t buy this house when I saw who was next door. I’m guessing that’s why it was so cheap.’

‘I would like to have a friend, though, someone my own age?’

He put down his knife and fork.

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ he said. ‘Leave it with me.’

I was excited. In the weeks that followed, Dad began to do up the barn. I helped him run electricity from the main house in an underground trench we dug out. We pored over DIY books to figure out how to get water pipes from the mains into the corner of the barn. Dad installed a large sink, toilet and a modern shower. And then he bought a cooker and a fridge. He lined the walls with egg boxes. ‘Soundproofing,’ he said. ‘They’ll want their privacy. I’m going to look for a lodger, a young person who can work from home and keep you company.’ I was delighted at the idea, but then disappointed when, months later, this young man had failed to materialize. ‘It’s hard to find just the right person,’ Dad said, ‘but don’t worry, I’ll keep looking.’

A few weeks after I first spoke to him, Rangi Parata turned up at the front door. ‘Can I watch your television?’ Dad wasn’t due home for two hours.

‘Sure,’ I said, holding the door wide open and standing well back from him. I turned on the TV. There was a soap opera on. ‘Can we watch the rugby?’ said Rangi.

I switched to the other channel. ‘Okay?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Ireland isn’t as good as the All Blacks, but –’

‘Ah yeah, I know that. Nobody is.’

At half-time, during the ad break, he asked, ‘Have you got a beer?’

‘We have Fanta. Would you like some?’

‘Your old man doesn’t drink?’

‘No.’

Rangi watched the game and I watched him. ‘Stop looking at me, you freak,’ he said. ‘Are you a queer?’

‘No!’ Dad had explained to me about gays and lesbians and I’d picked up other words for them from books and television. ‘I rarely get to see people my own age.’

‘Yeah? Well, stop it.’

‘Sorry.’

‘You got an indoor dunny?’

‘You don’t?’

‘Nah. Just a long drop.’